Poetry from Abigail George

Rosaline/a prose poem for my niece

Today I thought I would live forever. The man I thought I would marry lives in Cambodia now. His mother wrote to me this morning.

She texted me a prayer. She is eighty years old. There are millions of refugees in Sudan. That won’t change overnight. My mother made a birthday cake for a vagrant. My father is eighty. Trump is president of America. My sister is Europe. All my letters, she never reads them. All my love for her is returned to me. This broken clock and silence is all that I have. The hours that stretch before me and behind me is all that I have. My parents love. A niece and nephew. Other mother’s children is all that I have. The memory of wildflowers in your eyes is all I have. You are the sun. You have replaced the energies of the man who was going to play “Husband” in my life. You and your brother.

I have never felt more alone. I spent the morning with my father and the child. She is a bundle of tireless energy and novel words. One day I will not be enough for her and she will seek out the world. Perhaps men, older men in the same way that I did when I was in my twenties in Johannesburg. I think of my mental illness. My dream of becoming a poet that came true.

You are exceptional. You are extraordinary except you are not my daughter, you are not my son. You, C., are a teenager now. It’s been a year since I’ve seen you. We spoke once on the phone. You sounded happy. I miss you. Our long talks and our conversations. You making spag bol in the kitchen the way your mother taught you or making grilled cheese sandwiches when there’s nothing in the house to eat. You grew up in this house but those days are over. Long gone.

I don’t think of V. as intensely as I once did. How fleeting and temporary grown-up happiness is. Daddy is eighty. Mummy is slowly catching up to him.

I am the woman who was married to a soldier for an eternity, and didn’t even know it.

I have forgiven you already. Do you, can you understand that at your tender age? And now I am waiting for the return of that. That you forgive me. When the man of your dreams meets someone else you begin to wonder and try to justify what you saw in him in the first place. You begin to think to yourself how quickly perfection was ruined, summer afternoons talking, sharing, listening to each other but that of course it is going to be alright. You tell yourself that you will meet someone else. It becomes non-negotiable but it is not as easy as it looks. You think you have a connection with every person on this planet but that is not true.

It is important for you to meditate. Apostle Paul says, “Pray without ceasing”. Your loneliness appears on the surface to be the same as mine. I remember your breath inside my body. It was a declaration. It commanded the day, the light shining through the glass of the window. Things were not as they seemed. I called it love in my spirit, then falling in love, then it was done. Finished. The divine power that began the journey of us ended and then the prosperity removal of struggle and despair from my life began.

I often wonder if you are lonely. Are you as miserable as I am? Do you suffer from clinical depression? Do you seek help from a therapist? When I am dead no one will remember me. Not my smile. Not my soul. Not my laughter. Not my spirit in this room or the heart that I carry in daylight. I write a poem and turn it into a personal essay, much later, I turn it into a prose poem, even later, I take it apart, deconstruct it.

We ate lamb shanks for lunch with white rice that honoured my worth and mashed potato that overflowed with abundance. My brother ate his with an open bottle of beer near his plate. I watched the details of him eating, taking it all in. My brother complained that the rice was soggy. It was not to his liking. I looked at his tired, sad and handsome face as he lit up a cigarette standing at the kitchen door.

I eat cheese curls with my mother as she sits across from me. How can I still be in love with someone who ignores me, I say? Well, that’s your fault, she says. Everything is my fault.

In the evening I pray for my family, purging the shroud, the children that are the light of my life, the supernatural instinct and as my body changes shape with time I move forward into an unknown future, flowing streams of enlightenment in the natural, in the flow and ebb of the tunnel of my consciousness. I rotate these living tools for growth and energy with ease.

I will always carry you like I carry the clouds in the sky that day that you left me. I remember that night. I know it like I know the subtleties, nature and the backs of my hands. I can still taste the moonlight at the curve of the back of my throat. The pink light of its cave that develops each time I open my mouth. Yes, I know you and will carry your secrets with me for a lifetime in every fold of my clothing tenderly just because I feel that is what you deserve.

Deconstructing Elmo

I am on the path to enlightenment. The path of inner knowing. Truth leads to inner power, teaches us about knowledge, the preparation and discernment of goals, a declaration of hope and spiritual reality and awareness. Trust in God. He is the absolute deliverer. The spirit is one of the resources of the universe that leads us to our values. Mother Mary is a poignant image, as is the angel Gabriel. I look at the woman, at her slender body, her slender fingers, her open mouth, a gaping hole, a leaf, a wound, her legs and thighs as sturdy as branches, yes, I look at the woman, my sister, my mother, M.’s mother, all three of them beautiful, stared at by men with adoration, and I wonder to myself have they ever felt pain like I have felt pain. You see, I don’t think they have felt pain. I have never been desired like they have been desired. I have never felt the desire, carried a child in my womb for nine months. I think that it’s going to be ok not being in this cold, cruel world amongst people who do not love me or who show any love, care or concern for me. The child who is not my own sleeps next to me. Elmo is on the screen but I have no appetite for Elmo, Cookie Monster and Big Bird. I am determined that I would have moved with grace in the world if I had been loved.

Poetry from Maja Milojkovic

Younger middle aged white woman with long blonde hair, glasses, and a green top and floral scarf and necklace.
Maja Milojkovic

End and Beginning

Just as the young moon gently cuts through the starry canvas,

comets are born from that very sliver—

brief flames that shine and disappear.

When they fade into darkness,

we lift our gaze to the sky

and let a wish settle deep within our hearts.

When someone leaves this world,

our voices turn into songs—

celebrating the journey and the final return.

The universe measures everything with care,

pouring equal amounts of sorrow and joy,

as if each breath were a blessing

and each exhale a reminder of impermanence.

Let life flow, graced by blessings,

though it steadily walks toward death.

For all beauty springs from what is fleeting,

and every song reaches its final verse,

only to give birth to a new beginning in silence.

Maja Milojković was born in 1975 in Zaječar, Serbia. She is a person to whom from an early age, Leonardo da Vinci’s statement “Painting is poetry that can be seen, and poetry is painting that can be heard” is circulating through the blood. That’s why she started to use feathers and a brush and began to reveal the world and herself to them. As a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and foreign literary newspapers, anthologies and electronic media, and some of her poems can be found on YouTube. Many of her poems have been translated into English, Hungarian, Bengali and Bulgarian due to the need of foreign readers. She is the recipient of many international awards. “Trees of Desire” is her second collection of poems in preparation, which is preceded by the book of poems “Moon Circle”. She is a member of the International Society of Writers and Artists “Mountain Views” in Montenegro, and she also is a member of the Poetry club “Area Felix” in Serbia.

Poetry from Mykyta Ryzhykh

***

the word ceiling does not mean that you have a sky

the word sky does not mean that nothing will fall on your head

scared to live with worms underground

it’s even scarier to live with worms above the ground

scared to be a worm

(the worm can be cut into pieces and he will not die)

(the worm moves strangely and has no legs)

scared to be

scared to scream

scared to be silent

scared to stream

it’s scary to be a man but to live without limbs like you’re a worm

as a child, I always tore off the arms and legs of toys

I tore off the arms and legs of toy soldiers

  (like in real life)

god why can’t you see

why does everyone around say that you do not exist

why does everyone around say that I’m not there

why am I lying somewhere in the cemetery and it’s dark around

***

Ashtrays of the Lord God after a night thunderstorm

Who will not return home after being struck by lightning?

Little girl looks out the window with hope

Her mother looks out the window with promised melancholy

***

firefighters die in a spring thunderstorm

fluffs of moisture swirl insatiably 

in the sultry air

***

in a spring fire 

trees were burned paper packaging thoughts plastic hands skin tears fears

and then the fire was extinguished with urine

the sky above the color of the bones of an angel

***

I have never seen birds

my old grandfather doesn’t recognize me

I rub my eyes 

and it’s dark around

physical diseases transmitted genetically are the most terrible

***

when my cat died i laughed

mouse corpses floated in the air

a sad mother came up and asked why I had fun and I bit her hand

then mom got offended and left the hospital

then the orderly came and again injected me with a sedative

the cleaning lady went to the bed and removed the toy (cat) torn to pieces

the remaining month in the mental hospital was not marked by anything special

***

Gas mask from the magi

Cocaine from cain

Cider from eva

Gospel of babylonians

And every morning someone born under the star of 

Jesus gets ready to go on the road

***

a small bird warms a piece of glass with its breath

a shadow from a tree hides behind a feathered back

college life caught in death collage

the bird freezes and the graveyard rain falls from heaven

the graves are crying and trying to say something

the tree is looking for a flower on its branches and does not find

another day has come to an end

***

The gallows of your embrace

Thousands of suns soak up the world around

Thousands of suns explode destroying the suicide world

The city of unwashed ropes and cracks in the chest climbs out

A man near a signboard and it is not clear where to go forward or into the future

***

1

Can’t die without you

Can’t breathe without you

I want to see your naked body

I want to see the bare naked soul

Paratroopers fly overhead like seagulls

But you’ll never see it again

2

A spring flame of hope burns in my chest

I’m still naive and capricious like a child

You are so beautiful and capable of giving everything in the world

You’re fucking somewhere far away with others and I’m happy for you

Distance is a house of cards for the two of us

And I never knew anything about cards

You’re in the house

I’m in a dungeon

3

The rain divides the city in half

The first half is for my love

The second half is destined for my love’s graveyard

***

the book teaches 

own pages 

to crunch wisely

***

five fingers

a child asked 

his mother 

why other children have five fingers

***

The graveyard of the bed counts the vertebrae

The broken ceiling shades the skies in the pupils

Aluminum birds stonefull knock on the window

The soul leaves the meat cage of physicality forever

***

stonefull 

everything

ness

without face –

outside my body

***

eagle without:

feathers 

beak 

еyes 

wings 

skin 

bones 

body

***

the voice you hear 

is drowning 

in the autumn water

***I didn’t pay for air before nightfall
My house has turned into a monster

Where should I return now?

***

snow is procrastination when your favorite porn actor dies inside you

Poetry from Duane Vorhees

MIGRATORY

I paddled inside you,

my mallard on your pond.

And then ¡away! I flew.

You waved and waved, alone.

ARACHNOLOGIST

My page-spiders

weave their wordwebs

inside your head,

to decipher.

UNSEASONED

Don’t come to me in Yellow,

when thermometers are full

of fever, of sweat, of woe

and nights are by daylight culled.

And please avoid me in Brown.

Environments start to die

and virgin forests ungown

and bare scarcity outcries.

Avoid my presence in White:

Lives lie sleeping in the ground

away from the strangled light,

away from festival sounds.

But in Green I’ll wait for you

and in Green we’ll reunite.

Green will welcome a rendezvous

between my cloud and your kite.

JASMINE AND COAL

I fell out of the orgasm

that left me bitter and old.

The air was filled with jasmine

but my tongue tasted of coal.

I lived like a revolution.

In the midst of brick and steel

I thought I could find ablution

if I never bowed or kneeled.

I believed only a hedon

was immune to slavery,

misunderstood as freedom

the struggle for ecstasy.

COCOON

I saw my externist today

and got my prescriptions filled

for a well-curated array

of armor auras and pills

to protect me against weathers

and germs. And also to blunt,

like a cuirass wrought of leather,

the intimacy of hugs

and the taste and touch of kisses.

In this invisible plate

I can discover what bliss is,

now that I’m inviolate.

Poetry from Don Bormon

Young teen South Asian boy with thick short dark hair, brown eyes, and a white collared shirt with a name tag and a school seal.
Don Bormon

Winter Day

Now winter is very hard

Animal need guard.

Sun can’t be seen

Everywhere is covered with fog

The fog is falling like rain

It wet the entire nature.

Poor people struggle very hard in winter

They haven’t clothes to cover.

Animals can’t go out for food.

So it is very sad, not good!

When the sun goes out,

The mist’s drops of leaves

Shine bright.

This time the nature be happy

From animals to trees.

Don  Bormon is a student of grade nine in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Synchronized Chaos First December Issue: Who Will We Become?

First of all, contributor Jeff Rasley invites people to consider this opportunity to further education in Basa Village, where he has spent much time.

From Jeff: The people of Basa Village, Nepal, have requested our Foundation’s help with two projects commencing in 2025. Funds are needed to help pay the salaries of three of the village school’s teachers. If private funding is not provided, the school’s English, Science, and Social Studies & Computer Literacy teachers will have to work for no pay or resign. Because the village’s family farms are all subsistence farms, many of the 85 elementary school students will eventually leave Basa. Acquiring education that will help to make the village’s youth employable in a city may be vital to their future. The Foundation is seeking contributions to fund those three teachers’ salaries for one year.

The second project is the development of a commercially viable herd of goats and pigs. The villagers are dependent on subsistence farming and money earned by some of the adults working in the tourist industry as support staff for treks and mountaineering expeditions. Disastrous earthquakes in 2015 and the 2020 COVID pandemic virtually shut down tourism for two years following each of those catastrophes. The village leaders realized that a sustainable business is needed to support village families, when jobs in tourism are not available. The first animals were purchased this year, but to make the endeavor profitable, more animals must be purchased and cared for. The goal is to have a profitable co-op business of selling goat milk, cheese, and yoghurt and pork within two years after the requisite number of animals are acquired. Money earned above costs will support the village school and provide assistance to any families in need.

Please consider contributing to our fundraiser for the school and farm projects via our website at https://www.bvfusa.org/donate

Or, send a check to our corporate treasurer David Culp 2322 E. 66th St. Indianapolis, IN 46220. Let me know if you have any questions about the projects or the BVF. The Basa Village Foundation USA, Inc. is a 501(C)(3) organization, and financial contributions to it are charitable donations, per the US Internal Revenue Code.

Orange butterfly with brown lower wings and black dots on the upper wings, resting on gravel. Question mark butterfly.
Image c/o Sheila Brown

Now, for this month’s first issue: Who Will We Become?

John Edward Culp personifies the human journey through life as a child learning to walk under a giant sky. On the other hand, Ilhomova Mohichehra’s work honors the beauty and longevity of a tree.

Sayani Mukherjee communes with the hidden longings and feelings layered within a landscape as Rubina Anis melds colors into gentle natural scenes. Christina Chin and Jerome Berglund’s collaborative tan-renga highlight vignettes and observations of humans co-existing with nature. Raquel Barbeito’s art zooms in on pieces of nature – flowers, spiders, a skull – in black and white. O’tkir Mulikboyev wishes to become part of his natural environment and bring nutriments to those around him.

Alan Catlin presents human and animal wildness in its feral glory: hunger, fear, crashing ocean spray, animal eyes in the dark, earthworm trails. Sidnei Rosa da Silva’s prose poetry depicts the lonely calm of a northern winter. Christina Chin and Kimberly Olmtak’s collaborative tan-renga becomes more personal and domestic, presenting cozy tea and houseplants.

Duane Vorhees furthers his poetic exploration of sensuality, fecundity, and history. Brooks Lindberg’s poem probes the linkages between older mysticism and newer beliefs given our understanding of physics.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography positions youth and new life as a continuation of the world’s cultural and natural history. Kylian Cubilla Gomez captures the off-center wonder and mystery of childhood through his photographic close-ups of toys.

Light-skinned boy with short brown hair and red glasses and a gray shirt and red jacket in front of a black and white background with question marks.
Image c/o Gerd Altmann

Mashhura Ahmadjonova sends in a piece on how quickly life passes and Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan reflects on the steady stream of life, one day after another, as Rashidova Shahrizoda Zarshidovna urges us to live with intent and purpose.

Jacques Fleury’s pieces address awakening, surprise, and discovery. JoyAnne O’Donnell celebrates the manifold ways ordinary people can find joy in our everyday lives, including love and close relationships. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa conveys the deep joy of intimacy, friendship, and love. Mesfakus Salahin evokes quiet moments of peace brought by a tender love. Sara Goyceli Serifova wishes to live a long time with her beloved partner, as her grandmother did.

Z.I. Mahmud examines the characters’ journeys out of self-absorption toward empathy and wonder in Antoine Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince.

Layla Adhamova suggests that happiness is accessible to many people, not just the wealthy. Gullola Nuriddinova laments the betrayal of a lover who chose money over their beloved. Bill Tope’s short story illustrates a youthful form of justice against family favoritism and classism around the holidays.

Brian Barbeito conveys the wisdom of age in his piece on a friendship between a young boy and a kind elderly neighbor.

Older light skinned woman with reading glasses and a black sweater embraces a young blue eyed boy with short hair and a blue tee shirt.
Image c/o George Hodan

Haitmurodov Ismoil reflects on how a father’s love can sustain you throughout life. Azimbayeva Dilrabo gives a tribute to a caring father who passed away, Iroda Sherzod offers up a tribute to her caring and selfless father, and Rahmiddinova Mushtariy pays tribute to her father’s wisdom. Olimjonova Muslima pays tribute to her parents’ continued support all along her academic and personal journey.

Sobirjonova Rayhona shares tributes to beloved teachers here, here, and here. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva’s story illustrates how a teacher brought about justice in the classroom without shaming anyone. Shoxijaxon Urunov’s essay highlights how teachers accomplish so much more than imparting information.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna reflects on the difficulties and hard work of the creative life and her determination to pursue that path, as Kass probes the solitary inner drives of a literary artist.

Rick Reut tinkers with the arrangement of words in concrete poetry exploring time, memory, and language. Vernon Frazer’s words pop out of juxtaposed shapes and images while Mark Young serves up a heady word-marinade. Maftuna Yusufboyeva looks into a different way of using language, examining the role, goals, and purposes of advertising. Texas Fontanella links ideas and words and bursts of thought together in his Pound-inspired modern canto.

Federico Wardal spotlights the elegance and cultural history of Andrea Ceccomori’s San Francisco flute performances. David Sapp illuminates a moment of rapturous ecstasy in the view of sublime art. Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s poetry reminds us that the truth about history and humanity is often difficult to stomach and that art helps us process our knowledge. Thus, the literary arts are a worthy calling, despite the lack of remuneration.

Red and orange and purple gears, green and purple dots, and a magnifying glass viewing them. Red question mark in view.
Image c/o Gerd Altmann

Farangiz Abduvohidova analyzes the ancient Greek influence on some words in the Uzbek language. Muslima Murodova contributes a patriotic piece about Uzbekistan as Ismailov Shukurillo offers a paean to his Uzbek heritage and Jasmina Makhmasalayeva conveys her pride and joy in her Uzbek homeland.

Norova Zulfizar outlines various historical sites in Uzbekistan while Rustambekova Nozimakhon sketches life in her neighborhood, showing her pride in her community. Khalida Nuray’s poem urges people of Turkish ancestry to rise up and defend and protect their homeland and culture.

S.C. Flynn’s poetry illustrates the tragedies of incomplete journeys and transformations: beautiful thoughts, creatures, and relationships that never develop into what they are meant to be.

Taylor Dibbert’s poem reflects the quiet anxiety many Americans felt over the 2024 presidential election. In a similar vein, Daniel De Culla satirizes Donald Trump’s values and personality through poetry and a photo. Pat Doyne bitterly calls out the United States’ less welcoming attitudes towards immigrants. John Ebute poetically seeks signs of life in his native and troubled Nigeria. Abigail George mourns the loss of life and the obfuscations of international politics in her poems on the war in Gaza. Alexander Kabishev ends his saga of the trauma of living in St. Petersburg under siege. David Woodward reflects on broken American political systems with concrete poetry using absurdist forms.

In a more general vein, Anvarova Nilufar laments the harsh state of the world and human nature. Goyibnazarov Abdulla reminds us how people often overestimate their abilities and knowledge.

Blue neon light images of two outlined heads in profile up against each other with a question mark in blue lit up above them. Some orange-yellow diamond shaped bits of light in the background.
Image c/o Kai Stachowiak

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s undercapitalized works evoke the barren, alienated landscape of modern life. J.J. Campbell offers up a bah-humbug to the festive season, showing overworked cashiers, commercialism, pain, racism, and loneliness behind the holiday mood. Jim Meirose sends up a quirky tale for the season of online electronics shopping.

Tempest Miller explores memory, trauma, and the absurdity of existence through his pieces on zebras, crocodiles, industry, and nature. Jake Cosmos Aller revels in the surreal wild spirit of a crazy night of passion and booze. Paul Costa uses the language of Western-style adventures to highlight struggles within and among people.

Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on human vulnerability and on gratitude for her health. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects poetically on the loss of a great love. Mahbub Alam also mourns an absence that has become visceral and inescapable. Philip Butera’s poetry explores personal and relational grief, loneliness, and the desire to escape from oneself. Christopher Bernard expresses similar sentiments in his poetic tribute to writer Marvin R. Hiemstra and other deceased writers, which focuses less on than on the individuals who passed and more on the implacability and universality of death.

Christina Chin presents a third round of collaborative tan-renga, this time with M.R. Defibaugh. Its protagonists bring a quiet determination to face unexpected twists of fate.

Maja Milojkovic presents a glorious vision for the world, where everyone enjoys peace, freedom, and mutual respect. We hope that this publication brings Earth a step closer to that goal. Please enjoy the issue!

Essay from Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan

Central Asian young woman with a brown patterned headdress, a gray knit sweater, and brown eyes seated in front of a window.

 

The first stage is the stage

 The stage is a little bit more 

 The first stage of stage 

One and then I will have 

 The Last Stage in o my room

The next day and the next 

Morning the next morning 

 The next night we are in bed 

 The next night I am awake 

 Another night I have to go 

The only way owning my 

The World is if I’m not able

Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan Kimyo International University in Tashkent Primary education 1st stage student Family